


The Magneto Files

by alernun



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Bigotry & Prejudice, Canonical Character Death, Explicit Language, M/M, MissingCharles, Mutant Pride, NoWayMagnetoJustLiesDownAndDealsWithSolitary, Sexual Content, Torture, Violence, WhoDoWeThinkHeIs?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 19:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1869630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alernun/pseuds/alernun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre events of DOFP. After the CIA captures and tortures Emma Frost, they discover that she has been publishing a secret mutant newsletter under the direction of an imprisoned Magneto via a telepathic bond she's managed to forge from a distance. The following are the declassified contents of that newsletter and other assorted correspondence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fallen Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> I've been on a bit of a media kick lately. This fic was inspired by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s "Letters From A Birmingham Jail," and is the sort of thing I imagine Magneto saying to his followers over the years if Emma had managed to give him that chance. Let me know what you think of the first installment.

CENTRAL INTELLIGENGE AGENCY DOSSIER-CLEARANCE LEVEL A 

COINTELPRO-OPERATION IRON FIST 

HANDLER NOTES 

03/01/1970 

Target FROST apprehended. Analyzed by LT. STRYKER and DR. TRASK. Sedated to hinder apparent telepathic abilities. Processed at TRASK Industries HQ. 

03/04/1970

Subject FROST uncooperative and not receptive to promises for her release. Must be constantly sedated in order to remain docile. Resistant to sodium pentothal. DR. TRASK recommends further processing.

03/11/1970

DR. TRASK and team discover and manage to crack Subject FROST'S secondary mutation. Bits of her diamond-like shell have been moved to Pentagon for further study. 

In addition, Subject attempted to seduce Handler in a moment of lucidity. Handler believes she is psychologically desperate and “on the brink.” Am optimistic that she will provide valuable intel. 

03/17/1970 

Subject is now responsive to processing. Handler is in possession of a list of Brotherhood member leads. 

03/19/1970 

Subject's fingernail beds have become infected at the removal points. Nose also fractured during sleep deprivation phase 3 when Subject's ropes snapped on impact with the floor. Sodium Pentothal now having an ancillary effect, possibly due to her compromised immune system. Breakthrough has led to the decryption of the mutant dialect purportedly invented and canonized via an underground printing press over the last eight years.

03/21/1970 

Subject continues to translate documents brought to her in the Omega Epsilon language. 

03/24/1970 

Subject attempted to ingest finished pages of translations and swallow her own tongue. Attempt was unsuccessful. 

03/26/1970 

After 24 hours of catatonic unresponsiveness, Subject FROST was deemed moot and terminated at 08:00 hours this morning by lethal injection. DR. TRASK hypothesizes DNA will be invaluable in discovering the long-elusive power of ESP. Handler has read the translations of the rogue mutant zines and transcribed them below. Handler believes they are press releases put out by Subject IRON FIST at the behest of Deceased Subject FROST via telepathic link unbeknownst to the CIA. 

Subject IRON FIST will be moved accordingly to an underground facility. 

DR. TORUKO has replicated the molecular structure of the alloy used in Subject IRON FIST'S helmet. Contractors commissioned to line walls of new cell. 

 

\---TRANSCRIPT--- 

_CIA0005636-FAV-1/ZINES_  
Perceived Overall Purpose: Pontification and Recruitment.  
Secondary Documents And Entries: Personal in nature. Elude to a deviant homosexual relationship with Target X. Target X still at large.  
Ordered by: Date 

_12/11/1963_  
Zine Title: A Brotherhood of Mutants  
Probable Author: Magneto or Ghostwriter 

My fellow mutants. If you are reading this, then you have already discovered that you are not alone. One of my band has trained you to see in ways that humans do not see, to read what the humans do not read. My associate assures me this will be distributed by the end of the day, and, although I am being kept covertly in a concrete box made by the homo sapians, illegally tried in absentia by a military tribunal, I will smile when they bring me the horse shit that passes for dinner, knowing that there's a strange Cyrillic on newsprint in your hands. 

First I'll address the rumor mill. I did not assassinate President Kennedy. On the contrary. After the Cuban Missle Crisis, when our kind was exposed to two superpowers, the original Brothers and I felt we had to be preemptive. As preemptive as the missles on that beach. The teleporter in our group transported us directly into the White House Master Bedroom in the early hours of the morning, where I planned to take him hostage and figure out our next move. 

What I found was not what I bargained for. For one, First Lady Jacqueline was awake and reading by lamplight. When we three appeared she started, but after the initial knee jerk reaction, her eyes narrowed. There was not a trace of surprise on her face. 

“So you finally decided to make an appearance.” 

Her tone was almost bored. But I recognized the upward tilt to her chin, and the tension in her shoulders. It is not the object to conquer fear. Only to limit it's power over you, and do what needs to be done. 

“Wake your husband.” I said to her. 

“John.” She said his name, loudly and evenly, and the President's eyes snapped open.  
There was a surreal moment where we were all silent and regarding; the Jew who can move metal, the Devil, and the Ice Queen. The President and his stoic wife. It was like something out of Brecht. But then the president sighed the sigh of world leaders, and reached out his hand. 

“It's a relief to finally meet you, Mr Lehnsherr. You're sort of a loose canon, but up until the aerial footage, I thought I was the only one who had...gifts.”

I took his hand mechanically, but as he said the last word, a shot of warmth traveled the full length of my arm. Trying to describe this is like trying to describe color to a blind man, surely. But I have to try. The more we know about our kind the better. When President Kennedy took my hand, I felt all the things that he felt in that moment. Anxiety, curiosity, and wonder. Fear, for himself and for Jacqueline, but also for us, a big-picture fear and a stewardship for all the underdogs of our time that I've only ever encountered in one other man (more's the pity to him). Contentment in his marriage, confidence in his position, pleasure in the creation of change. John Kennedy was an open book to me, and I in turn felt the rape of my own heart, torn open and taken and understood, even more galling than the intrusion of a telepath, because the language of the heart is primal. There could be no hiding behind internal German grammar drills or muddled words for an-

“Empath,” I whispered. 

“Yes, and if you don't mind me saying so Mr. Lehnsherr,” Jacqueline's voice was prim as she closed her book and rested her head against her husband's shoulder. “You're reading like a basket case right now.” 

What had been a planned kidnapping turned into a joint strategic meeting. John Kennedy's mutation was an extraordinary one, and a fortuitous genetic accident for a politician. His innate understanding of the pain and struggles of others made him a powerful advocate for the oppressed, and it didn't take him long, then, in his bedroom at an ungodly hour, to add mutants to his list of personal causes. In a perfect world, a world where our kind live freely and without fear, his power would be something to covet. 

But the same thing that made this great man great made him weak in the end. His controversial agenda offended the small minds of other politically powerful humans, and from what my telepathic associate could glean, money changed hands between one of them and the Central Intelligence Agency. Three CIA issue bullets were fired that dark day in November. I regret to say that I was only able to curb two before the syringe got me in the back. 

And so here I sit, a scapegoat like my father and his father before him, paying for the crimes of smaller, inferior creatures. Their psychiatrists have dubbed me a narcissistic personality and so are keeping me locked up in solitary confinement as a form of torture, hoping to soften me so that I break like brittle tin, too afraid, really, to get near me and speed up the process. 

They do not know the arena we play on, let alone the rules of our game. Tonight is the first night of Hanukkah, and the candle burns bright in my heart, for the late President Kennedy, for my Brothers, and for all of you. 

More Soon 

Magneto


	2. On Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Magneto humble-brags about seducing a human guard and waxes poetic about duty and a mysterious "C------."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Charioteer," by Mary Renault is the book referenced by Magneto throughout the chapter and is one of the first overtly gay novels ever penned. It was published in America in 1959. 
> 
> Also I would really appreciate comments on this as I'm particularly excited about it. Rhetoric!Erik is my favorite. *Big Charles Eyes* Please?

**01/20/1964  
Zine Title: A Brotherhood of Mutants **

It's been an eventful month in solitary.  
Soon after my last message to you all, my captors made an executive decision to turn off the heat, and my small concrete cell became an ice box. At the start of my incarceration, I was issued a bed, a thin blanket, and an army surplus canvas uniform; nothing to adequately combat the cold. On the third day of being able to see my breath, I tried to slice through the mattress and sleep between it's layers with the jagged plastic ends of a button, and was beaten for my trouble. On the seventh day, my hands swelled and became stiff with chill blains, a circulatory gift of my abbreviated childhood in the Warsaw ghetto that keeps on giving. On the twelfth day, feverish and chest heavy with a bronchial infection, I decided to take a risk.

The humans are painfully predictable. They attempt to space their checks on me at intervals that seem random, but judging by the frequency of each guard's appearance in comparison to the interval, there are three shifts in a day; 7am-3pm, 3pm-11pm, and the night shift. Furthermore, it became clear early on that each guard is required to make at least 4 rounds at their own discretion. 3 men, 4 rounds each, that's 12 instances a day in which to study expressions, posture, clothing, and demeanor. I didn't know exactly what I was looking for, but a good spy knows when he finds it.

The first guard was not a viable mark. I am a large man, but he outsizes me by at least twenty kilos and his expression never falters. Weather I'm dealing with a creature of a naturally sadistic disposition or a well trained attack dog is irrelevant; he is like the Volksdeutch, he is fresh in the daylight hours, and he is meticulous from head to toe. This cog in the apparatus of my oppression was the one who beat me within an inch of my life after the mattress incident. 

The afternoon guard is smaller and not such a comic book cliché. He calls to mind the expression, “the banality of evil.” As someone once condescended to observe to me in a different context, he is just following orders. If his spectacles had wire rims, I might have made a go of him, despite his lack of inclination to engage on any level. Even a weak pull against copper can achieve the effect that I desire. 

But I passed over the second guard in favor of the night watchman. This had been my instinct, and observation only confirmed intuition. For one, the oversized, plastic-prototype camera constantly pointed in my direction during daylight hours goes off at 11pm sharp. I know this because, although I can't manipulate it, I can sense the electricity being used to run it. Every night, as the florescent lights above my head go out and leave only the glowing red brand of the fire exit, the power in the camera is blocked, and re-directed to more fertile magnetic fields throughout the building. The second stress on the system of my imprisonment was evident in the third guard's habitual lateness. I have no means by which to reliably tell time, but sometimes the small watch face he wears around his right wrist says “11:08.” At other times 11:11, or 11:15. Lateness implies two things: less dedication, and more importantly, less accountability. It is probable that he is the only man on duty in my sector after 11, and has no superior to answer to until business hours the next day. 

The third is a cobbled together hint at his temperament. His youth, for one. If he hasn't skipped college, he is working through it. The undesirability of the position he holds, and his willingness to hold it. The hole in the right sole of his vaguely feminine boots. The bags under his bright eyes. Doe's eyes. The kind of eyes that widen at the onslaught of a moving train, and do nothing in an effort to save themselves. On the twelfth day, I decided to take the plunge after a dog-eared copy of a book fell face down on the glass ceiling of my cell where he had dropped it. The crimson light was dim, but I could just make out the title. 

“It's a good book. An important book.” I said as loudly as I could manage while still trying to seem amiable, having timed the interjection perfectly with his scrambled attempt to retrieve it.

He froze, face inches from my ceiling and a mere few feet away from my upturned head, only glass and the book between us. His name tag read “Bryce.” (Further encouragement). 

“You've read The Charioteer?”

I've been told by Mossad handlers that my smile is disarming. I smiled with everything I had, and even managed a half-wink. 

“Don't look so surprised. Even Alexander was ruled by sex and sleep.” 

At this I got a laugh. Shaky. Hesitant. My in. His skinny hand gripped the book by it's spine, the other one coming up to run nervous fingers through auburn hair. He sat down cross-legged on the floor. 

“True enough. I guess...I mean, the stories they tell about you. It's a wonder you have time for reading or sex or sleep, between trying to kill Nazis and our greatest president since Lincoln.” 

“Don't believe everything you hear. I'm a great reader. And if I were Laurie...” I paused in reference to the protagonist, and gave Bryce a once over with my gaze that I learned long before I learned how to manipulate metal. “I'd run to the Quaker, any day of the week. Soft boys suit my hardness.” 

His blush had crested it's bloom by the time I derailed any further innuendo with a well-timed coughing fit. When I finally caught my breath, he was more concerned than embarrassed. 

“Are you ok?”

“I don't think so, Bryce. I think I need a doctor, or at least some amoxicillin. My lungs have never been right since the camps, and it's cold down here.”

He looked troubled, but didn't immediately blanch at the suggestion. “I don't think I can do anything about that. I don't even know who's handling your case. They just give me the key card and say goodnight.”

He sounded almost guilty. It gave me the final push I needed to raise the stakes. “No need to bring anyone else into this. Amoxicillin's easy enough to get. You could slip it into my food tray, just there...” I pointed to the mailbox-sized door of the re-purposed dumbwaiter to my left. “And it would be our little secret.” 

“You're out of line, Inmate.” He mumbled, but it was clear his thoughts did not match his words, and his face was still red when he got to his feet and left me to continue his rounds. 

The next night, he didn't say a word to me, nor the night after that. I had begun to give up hope, and resigned myself to a hunger strike or some other form of turgid protest to force the apparatus's hand. But on the third night, as I drifted fitfully between wakefulness and sleep, the scrape of the dumbwaiter and hurried footsteps against the glass dragged me out of my delirium. 

In the box was his copy of the novel, and an orange prescription bottle filled to the brim with pills. On the inside cover, scrawled in messy writing, were the words “Have the brains to hide these and more will come.” 

And so me and Bryce have come to a silent understanding. I finished the medicine and the book, and regained my former health. I returned the book and the empty bottle to the dumbwaiter. He in turn replaced the book with another, which I keep between the abused mattress and it's frame, only daring to strain my eyes by fire exit light before the camera and the Volksdeutch guard and the florescent lamps return to their posts. I am not yet aware of my expected part in this bargain, but I'm sure I will be made privy soon enough. If he wants to talk, I will talk. If he wants me to fuck him, I'll fuck him. Simple. Pedestrian. Logical survival strategies. 

You might think, my fellow mutants, that this is is an encouraging story. A feel-good piece about how a human helped a mutant because of a shared affiliation for the finer things in life, like good literature and a good piece of ass. 

It's not. What it is is a story of weakness, and opportune exploitation of that weakness. Bryce is a human, and I am a mutant. I am the next step in evolution, and I am bent on his destruction. I pointed fifty missiles at what could have been his mother, his brother, his sisters, his lover, but he has let sympathy and what he perceives to be our shared sexual proclivities cloud the facts. Pity and lust are the termites that eat away at his brittle resolve, and make him my pawn. 

When I think about it, I have the urge to laugh long and loud to myself. Perhaps this is another side effect of spending too much time alone, but I don't think so. I need only to conjure the image of my true beloved, and know that he is the reason for my scorn. The man, the _mutant_ , that has my heart, could make this pathetic agency fall apart with a mere nudge of his mind. I've watched his jaw drop and his eyes cloud over, slack with ecstasy, as he touched the consciousness of every one of our kind, asserting himself over an entire species, only to come back to me, trembling with excitement, chattering on about their welfare with the optimistic grace of a God that does not know he is a God. I did not fuck C------. He possessed me, and I was allowed inside. Our love was a force greater than magnetism.

But C------ is not weak, and neither am I. There came a time...a day on a beach in the middle of hell, when we too were presented with Bryce's choice. A choice between our principles, and everything else. Neither of us were willing to sacrifice what we believed in, or our respective stewardship of a fledgling race. Not for something as trivial as personal happiness. 

You might be wondering, Brothers; “Is it worth it?” I admit I'm not the poster-mutant for short-term gains. But survival isn't about the short term. It wasn't in the primordial sea, or in Auschwitz, and it isn't in here. If I stay strong, I have no doubt I will get out. I have no doubt that C------ remains strong, and is spending his legion energy on a smattering of you lost souls, one genial conversation at a time. If I remain heavy and unbending as iron, I will find the cracks in my surroundings until they crumble, and so, my brothers, will you. 

More Soon 

Magneto


	3. On Thought Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Magneto answers fan mail and talks about telepaths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely accrues for this prompt. I'm taking requests on Magneto's essays, so feel free to shoot me any ideas! And as always, comments make my liiiiife.

03/14/1964 

On Freedom Of Thought 

Greetings, Brothers. My associate has informed me of our newsletter's rapid fire success, and your accelerated acquisition of the Omega Epsilon language by way of the appropriately gifted among you. 

You cannot fully comprehend the significance this has for me. After eighty-six days in solitary confinement, I can honestly say that this small piece of our furtive civil society is a lifeline for my morale. I feel that you are with me, and that I am out there with all of you. 

E--- has also related to me some of your questions. Indeed, she tells me that the PO Box in Southern California is packed almost daily, and the one in New York not far behind. I thought I would take this issue to answer a few common threads. 

Many of you had strong reactions to the idea of telepaths among us. Our network is indeed small yet, and most of us are still too guarded to reveal our gifts, so this is not surprising. You are also desperately curious about C------, the powerful telepath mentioned in “On Weakness” and my former lover. I'll be plain; to that line of inquiry everything in me wants to yell “It's none of your goddamn business.” But I have a lot of time in which to think here, and I've come to the conclusion that talking about C----- is a good place to start, and maybe the only way I have of explaining why the telepaths among us should not be automatically feared, but embraced, honored, and coveted for who they are. 

When I first met him, I felt very much as you all do. Our paths crossed in the middle of a black sea riddled with obstacles, and for me, one of the greatest obstacles was my own tortured mind. I had been hunting a man responsible for a great deal of the injuries me and my people suffered in the forties, and I was utterly determined to see him dead, even at the cost of my own life. But I was not the metalkinetic I am now. I had been practicing within the stunted parameters of my beleaguered, trauma-sick consciousness, and when I reached for my enemy's U-boat underneath the water, it pulled me down.

Only a telepath could have saved me from the waves that day. Only a telepath could have shocked me into obeying when he begged, in speechless Oxonian English, for me to let go, simply by virtue of his presence where no other creature had ever been, not even the good Doctor of Auschwitz-Birkenhau. And only C------, I'm convinced, could have plunged into the bedlam of my mind as easily as his soft, strong body plunged into the water, and come away coherent, compassionate, and unscathed. 

So, there you have the first reason; a telepath saved my life. 

I'd wager many of you are wondering, “Is life worth that violation?” I know I was, shivering on the deck of the Coast Guard's boat, bearing the full power of the most beautiful, soul-piercing eyes I had ever seen. After so long on my own with black memories, hunting the escaped Nazi party members one by one, to be utterly had, and totally known, was terrifying. It filled me with rage, and fear. 

But the sword of a telepath's penetrating regard has a flat end. Namely, C------ _knew_ me, without me having to tell. He understood without me having to explain, and had without me having to give. At that time in my life I was not capable of giving. I didn't remember the word trust in English, German, or any other language. But like all the living creatures on this earth, I was quietly desperate for congress.  
C------ knew me, and did not immediately run away. I didn't have to trust C------, because he took what he knew and reflected it back at me like the tireless light in his eyes, and then I knew as well. 

There's the second reason, which is that with a telepath, you know where you stand. And a skilled telepath might even be able to show you your own feet when you've lost them. Without C------, I would not be the mutant I am today. He took on the labyrinth of my mind and opened it, and then watched, chuckling, as I moved mountains. 

“But Magneto, we all have our secrets.” That's what one of your letters said. 

And it's true. Part of my uniform now is a helmet immune to telepathic influence, and that is precisely because I have secrets involving spy craft that I don't want anyone not aligned with our goals to know. It is one of the most significant disappointments of my life, that C------ is now included on that list. 

But other than confidential concerns of this kind (and I suspect a precious few of you are involved in the Great Game), I ask you:

Why do you have secrets? What are you hiding? And what is the purpose of hiding what you hide?

Are you hiding your mutation, or some other aspect of your physical makeup you think will be unpalatable to the rest of the population? My Brothers, Baruch said it best: “Those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.” Those who would judge you or reject you for your genetic superiority are either insects by comparison or ignorant, foolish mutants. (The X gene, I'm sorry to say, doesn't make anyone immune to the asshole gene). In regards to telepaths,they, being of us, would embrace any mutation you had with an open heart, and are probably more afraid of you than you are of them, considering the onerous reception their own gifts usually provoke. 

Are you concealing a misdeed? An affair maybe? A theft, or a murder? To that I say, do nothing that you are ashamed to speak aloud. Stand by your actions, and make sure they are in line with your convictions. Honesty requires just as much valor as war. 

Are you lying about something? Again, another form of cowardice. To lie is to hide within oneself, and we, as a fledgling race, cannot afford to waffle on the front lines of our own evolution. Speak your piece. Open your mouth. There is nothing tyranny loves more than silence. Silence is the desolate field in which tyranny curls its vines. 

So remember, my Brothers, the next time your spine shudders on a cold day amongst strangers, or you imagine a tingle in your brain stem, that a telepath, no matter their motives or personalities, will always, _always_ force you towards the courage of truth. They are drill sergeants in this incipient war of ours, and we need them. 

I would, literally, be lost to you all without them. 

Magneto


	4. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles has read the newsletter. Charles is not happy, and pens a letter saying so. Erik responds in an Erik-like manner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem referenced in the letter is by Yeats. Get your tissues ready, ladies. (PS, mistralle, I hope this fills your prompt!!) : )

_Secondary Document Bundle: A  
Perceived Overall Purpose: Correspondence. Personal in Nature. Sexually Deviant. Most likely refers to Target X._

03/17/1964  
Erik, 

The most recent editions of your propaganda rag have fallen into my hands. Since you have such a vivid and poetic memory, I'm sure you'll remember my plans to start a mutant school. I've started that school, no thanks to you, and am attempting to build my student body. This is proving rather difficult now that half the mutants in the state seem to know who you are, and the smarter set have guessed at the nature of our former relationship based on your mad essays. 

Do you ever, for one single moment, think of anyone other than yourself? Do you not understand that if our past acquaintance were to be confirmed, my teacher's license could be revoked, my inheritance called into question, and my very life thrown into jeopardy? You're a convicted terrorist assassin and an out homosexual man. For the love of God, exercise some discretion, if not for my sake, then for the sake of the children I'm trying to guide. You've already taken my legs, Erik. And you go on and on in your missives about _your_ heart, but spare no thought at all for mine, or how you mangled it like the metal and my spine on that _fucking_ beach. 

Write about me again, and I'll make you think you're Bryce's long lost grandmother. 

CX 

(PS, your ridiculous Omega Epsilon language is nothing more than Hebrew with reversed syntax. It took me less than an hour to decode, so you might want to pause a tick at patting yourself on the back and ask yourself how much cleverer I am, really, than the CIA).

03/27/1964  
C------, 

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,  
Enwrought with golden and silver light,  
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths  
Of night and light and the half-light,  
I would spread the cloths under your feet:  
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;  
I have spread my dreams under your feet,  
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. 

Love,  
Erik 

04/2/1964  
Erik, 

Stop this nonsense. Please. 

C------

04/14/1964  
C------, 

I will not enable your cowardice and alter the truth or my memory of it. That's not my power.  
I will not bow to yet another homo sapian attempt at hegemony, and allow myself to feel shame.  
Why must you always ask me for things I can't give you? Go on then; Bryce's grandmother it is. I dare you. Come to me. Break into the Pentagon like the house of cards that it is. Find me. Step into the concrete cage where they keep me and see if you can do what you intend. 

I know you, C------. Better than you know yourself. I know that if E--- hadn't been there, if you'd touched Schmidt's mind that day in the water instead of mine, then we would not have been ON that beach, because you would have ended him. You would have seen the dead children and all the horror he planned and you, Liebling, would have reached out and snuffed him like a candle. And I know that if you came here tonight, whether to end me or to love me, your shame and fear would fall off of you like a cloying second skin and you would be a sight to behold. Mighty, and strong, as you were meant to be. 

To love a creature like that...to love you, C------, is a privilege that I will not forfeit.  
To die at your hands is the only kind of peace within my grasp. 

I await you. 

Erik 

04/17/1964  
Damn you. Rot in there, then, and do as you bloody well please.  
I am powerless. 

CX


	5. Spectar of an Isle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Magneto gets some action and talks about Genosha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French Translation: "Help me, help me...My brothers, you help me every day."

_05/1/1964  
Zine Title: A Brotherhood of Mutants_

M'aidez, m'aidez. 

Mes frères, vous aidez moi tous jours. 

I am low, my fellow mutants. There is a malaise creeping into me, and blunting the iron. I think the good doctors are righter than I thought about solitary. Five months...it's longer than I've ever spent in any place this small. Even in the camp, living was a full time job. Teetering on the precipice of death and fear at least kept one busy, and there were always your bunk mates to whisper to in the endless dark. If it weren't for E---, exercise, and all of you, I fear the metal would crack, and not at my own discretion.  
Perhaps it was this malaise that left me so amenable to Bryce's company when he figured out how to lower himself down into my cell via the dumbwaiter last week. It was late-2:15 AM if his second-hand watch were anything to go by. I had been dreaming of all the things beyond my grasp when a cold, clammy hand reached out and shook me back awake. 

“Surprise.” He said as I rubbed my eyes. His smile was manic, nervous. He was smart to be nervous, and very, very stupid to have put himself down here with me. I affected more grogginess than I felt, and took a moment to consider my options. A quick scan with my starved power revealed no metal on his person; he was careful in some ways, then. I briefly considered taking him hostage, but I knew far too well that the US doesn't negotiate with terrorists. They would let him die, or find a way to sedate me, probably with gas, until they could rescue him. 

I could have killed him. A small voice in the back of my mind told me to do it, out of spite, because I could. Because he was a cog, just like the rest. A willing if simpering accomplice to my bondage. It would have taken seconds, to grasp him by his skinny neck and wring it, like the wounded pigeons my father would shoot in our small copse of trees. 

And yet. “No man is an island.'' A louder voice told me to be logical. To remember the books, the medicine, and his attraction to me. This same voice reminded me of the calender I'd begun to scratch into the wall, and how many days it had been...how many days it was likely to be. 

“Indeed.” I responded eventually, and when I smiled, I surprised myself in that it was not hard to fake. “I'm afraid I don't entertain much, but there's room on the cot.” 

I sat up so that he could sit. He was shaking, just a little. It made me think of pigeons again. Pidgeons, deer, mice. Mice and human men. I didn't move away when the mouse pawed at the newspaper under his arm, and handed it to me. 

“I thought you'd appreciate a read. Can't do much harm from in here, right?”

“No.” I lied, and thought of E---. 

“There's nothing in there about mutants, but Nelson Mandela was sentenced last week. I don't know why, but I found myself wondering what you'd think. I wonder about you a lot actually...”

He trailed off awkwardly, and blinked at me with his prey's eyes (blue...not the ideal shade, but blue), as I read the article. It stirred my blood. Before I realized what I was, I'd followed the story of apartheid in the European papers and lamented the repetitive nature of history. Mandela and the ANC are brothers in spirit. They knew, like I know, that nonviolent protest isn't enough. That when faced with your own extinction, you have to fight with everything you have, not sanitize your methods to appease the normative power structure. Now, it seemed the man was caught, but even facing death in a kangaroo court, he was brave. I found myself reading the excerpt of his speech aloud. 

“ _During my lifetime I have dedicated my life to this struggle of the African people. I have fought against white domination, and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons will live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal for which I hope to live for and to see realized. But, my Lord, if it needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die._ ”

Bryce let out a heavy breath, and twirled messy auburn hair around a finger. “Heavy stuff.”

“Good stuff. He's a brilliant man.” I said, and folded the paper back up before hiding it under the mattress. 

“You think so? You don't hate him because he's human?”

The way he was leaning in, blinking at me, mouth tight with tension, told me he wasn't all that interested in my opinions on Mandela as an individual. Still, I answered honestly, as I would during an impartial interview. “No. I don't hate humans on principle. But if it's me or them, I choose me. And humans have a tendency to force my hand. It will always be a choice between me or them. To do anything else other than subdue them would be akin to orchestrated suicide.”

Bryce frowned. “But not all humans hate mutants. I don't hate mutants!”

“Clearly.” I drawled, and then, because I couldn't help it, because it was too easy, I let my gaze track him up and down. “Not all ants hate boots, or even know what boots are, but you crush them just the same, because you saw that swarm on the BBC, and it is not a viable option.”

He really tried to be indignant. I'll give him that. “Is that what you think of me? I'm an ant? Can ants talk to you, Magneto? Can ants bring you stuff you need? I don't even know what I'm doing here. I think everyone is right about you-”

His mewling was growing tiresome. I reached out, and took...not his neck, although the desire flared in me, but his chin in my thumb and forefinger, and made him look right at me. 

“You know why you're here. The question is, do you have the courage of your convictions?” 

His skin heated up under my hand as he flushed. I could feel his heart beat, fast and pounding, fight or flight response coursing through him. I surprised myself again, and hoped he wouldn't flee. 

“You're a pretty ant.” Was the last thing I said before I lunged forward into the space of his indecision, and forced my tongue down his throat. 

The act was fumbling and messy. He kept trying to talk to me, and had an annoying habit of repeating my mutant name. It sounded wrong on his swollen lips, in his high-pitched voice, so I kissed him into silence and gave his mouth something to do for a while. Although he's pleasing to look at, I found I wanted to turn him over when it finally came time to finish what we'd started. I barely prepped him (be careful what you wish for), but he lay there, trembling and quiet as I took my pleasure, hot and tight and in pain and swallowing it. I came inside this little acolyte, and even mustered the motivation to finish him, only to discover he'd spent himself against the cot.

“S-sorry...” he whispered when I pulled out. “It's not like you can change your sheets. Fuck...I'll bring you something tomorrow.” He was all subdued and barely able to move, but tried to make quick work of getting dressed all the same. 

“I've slept on worse,” I said, and pulled my trousers on. “Off, are we? Have other prisoners to...check on?” 

He couldn't even look at me. Pathetic. I'll never understand the kind of faggot who lets you bugger them six ways from Sunday and then plays coy afterwords. 

“Yeah. Busy...double shift in another sector. Do you mind giving me a push?” 

He hunched over and fit himself into the dumbwaiter, then indicated the lip of the bottom shelf. I inclined my head smirked. Even with his added weight, the whole apparatus wasn't even close to heavy. I shoved upward and got him to the ground floor in one go, then listened to his slightly irregular footsteps and the slamming of the outer door before I was once again left to my own devices. 

The malaise was stronger than ever afterward. Touching him was like touching a ghost. Of what I'd had. Of what I could have. The ghost left me cold and reflective. I began to think about what my ideal future _would_ look like, exactly. We've been on the defensive since our own self discovery, and only recently have I had time to nation build inside my own head, even. I don't, when it comes down to it, dream of a world where human corpses line the streets, or even where I rule supreme. 

I dream of a world where I don't have to worry about humans at all. Where they're such a non-issue that most of us have forgotten the word. I dream of an island, but not a population of one. I dream of a beach and a vast sea separating our country from the rest, and wide, granite by-ways where mutant citizens can walk, run, teleport, or fly without fear. I dream...not of dominion, but of construction. I would build our country, and then leave you, my brothers, to run it while I search for ever-more ore, and mold it to our grand purposes. I can see our mutant Israel, unmarred by war, famine, or strife, made perfect just as we were made perfect as we use our gifts to crest survival, and thrive. 

Me and Mandela have to wait. But I hope we don't have to wait too long. M'aidez, m'aidez.


	6. Fan Mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title sums it up!

**06/15/1964  
Zine Title: A Brotherhood of Mutants**

Dear Magneto,  
I think you're really groovy, man. I don't believe it for a second when the pigs say you tried to off the president. Everyone knows the media is bullshit. Are you allowed to receive any packages or anything? Like for good behavior? Cos me and my freak buddies know how to get prime grass brownies by the sniffing dogs, easy. Which I guess is a question, how do you feel about, you know, the rabbit hole? You do any good drugs while you were running around killing baddies?

Peace and Love,  
FireFly from SoCal  
(I can glow in the dark if I want. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “blazed.”) 

Dear FireFly, 

Thank you for the thought, but I am a class A political prisoner, presumed dead by most of the human world. Half of the people in the Pentagon don't even know I'm here for sure. If it weren't for E--- and her telepathic connection with me, I wouldn't be able to receive even your correspondence. As for my history with drugs, I didn't experiment until well into my thirties. I was brought up in an orthodox Jewish family, and taught that the body was a sacred vessel of God. Although my faith has dwindled since childhood, my affinity for Semitic culture has not; old habits, I guess. Furthermore, after the austerity of the camps, I did not feel I had the right to defile my body in any way other than what was absolutely necessary. When so many others had died, it felt like spitting in the face of God's grace and neglecting what I had to do, which was find the Nazis and bring them to justice. 

Occasionally, imbibing was necessary in order to build trust and integrate with my marks. Usually it was opium, a novelty of the Orient that I don't recommend unless you want a permanent headache and skin the color of cornstarch. Sometimes it was cocaine, which is a dangerous and tempting drug. I'll never forget the gentleman's club in Argentina. The bar tender was selling by the line, and after two or three, I thought faster, moved faster, and manipulated magnetism with greater ease. That night, I didn't just kill my marks, I toyed with them recklessly, made them want me, took their phone numbers down and then stole their schooner. I didn't even wrap their bodies before I dumped them off the side into the bay. Cocaine told me it wasn't necessary, that I was invincible. FireFly, as your brother in this evolutionary struggle of ours, I'm telling you: stay the hell _away_ from cocaine. 

And cut down on the weed too. Your written English is worse than mine, and it's my seventh acquired language. 

Magneto 

Dear Magneto, 

My name's Tessa. I don't have another name because I like the one my dad gave me. I'm 13 years old and I like school and I'm a good swimmer. Last week I was down at the lake with my little brother and we had a hold-your-breath contest and Davey pushed me under and wouldn't let go even though I kept splashing him and telling him to quit it. I don't think he could hear me because I was under the water. Anyway, I thought I was going to die, it was so scary, but then I felt a really sharp pain at the side of my neck and wham! I could suddenly breathe. In the lake! And I could see better too, all the fish and sea weed and rocks and stuff. I didn't tell Davey though. When he finally got bored I gasped and covered the holes in my neck with my fingers and ran back to shore. It took a few seconds for them to close back up. I was _really_ scared then, because I thought maybe they wouldn't and I'd be a fish-girl forever and have to live under the sea like in A Little Mermaid, which I never liked the idea of because Ariel was so bored before she became a person. 

Magneto, am I a mutant? Or am I just a mermaid? Also do you think I should tell people? I read that one essay you wrote, about how we shouldn't lie. (By the way if you want to keep your newspaper a secret you should make your secret _language_ harder. Even without my code breaker's guide I got on mail order, this was super easy to figure out. I'm studying for my Bat Mitzvah and mistook this for a Torah verse when I found it on a table in the library). Anyway you said we shouldn't lie, but I'm afraid if I tell my parents they'll send me to the loony bin, or take me to the doctor and knock at my forehead until I'm stupid like the Smiths did to Millie down the block after she ran away with the hippies one too many times. I guess I could tell my best friend Rachel but she's a human, (I think, it's not good to assume), and I'm not sure she'd totally get it. Also I just want you to know I'm never going to hate her no matter what you say! Best friends are for life! And I think you should be nicer to your boyfriends. I'd kill for a boyfriend, and Ms. Magazine says not to take your beau for granted. 

I really hope you write back. 

Tess 

 

Dear Tessa, 

You sound like an extraordinary person, and it was a pleasure to get your letter. I'll try to address your concerns in order. First, Tessa is a fine name. My given name, if you didn't know, is Max. It was my grandfather's name, and he was a brave man. The question I pose to you about our given names however, is this: Do they really encompass everything that we are? How could they, when the people who gave them to us don't know what we can do, or how we feel when we do it?

This brings me to your second question; yes Tessa, you are a mutant. I never was clear on all the science, that's C------'s area, but unless there's some new strain of Ichthyological flu going around that I don't know about, developing gills around the advent of puberty during a stressful situation sounds like textbook X gene manifestation. (I was also unimpressed by The Little Mermaid. Hans Christian Anderson was never very good at writing strong female characters. If he's still alive, perhaps you should write one of your archly phrased letters to him, and put him in his place). Not only are you a mutant, you're an extremely special, powerful mutant. Did you know that mankind has explored less of the ocean than we have of space? With your gift, you could traverse the sea in a way no other woman before you ever has (not to mention get yourself out of any other watery binds borne of rough housing).

You should be proud of what you are Tessa, but you made the right decision in not telling anyone. I concede that when I began this newsletter, I didn't anticipate children taking an interest. Although I'm loathe to condescend to such a poised young lady, especially one so close to being recognized by her faith community as an adult, the laws of this land still deem you a child, and that means you do not have the freedom of motion required to be completely honest with those around you. Your intuition to fear your parent's power over you was correct, and in this case, lying by omission is not cowardice, but a subtle weapon. You are merely biding your time, dear, until you can spread your wings (forgive the cliché-fins?) and claim your independence. 

As to Rachel, your instinct has led you true again. It's been a whole week, probably longer by the publication of this edition, and yet you've not told her. I would never encourage you towards hatred; take it from someone who has enough hatred stored up to build his own nuclear bomb, it's no fun, and it hurts. However, we should acknowledge that friendship is borne of mutual understanding and shared interests. If Rachel can't understand your mutation, (and she definitely won't be able to take part in any of the games and experiments you're going to want to try with your gills), then that exclusion will create a rift between you, and your friendship will be damaged. If you must retain your human company, resign yourself to an arms length distance, and try to take solace in familiar companionable activities. 

Mazel tov on your Bat Mitzvah. I hope that someday, you'll think of a mutant name to supplement your Jewish one, and that you, unlike me, will continue to recognize good advice in magazines when you see it. 

Magneto 

Dear Magneto, 

I'm gonna break you out of jail. Just you wait!

Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

Promises, promises. 

Magneto 

Dear Erik, 

If you insist upon continuing this ridiculous publication, please urge the younger mutants in trouble to seek out my school in Westchester, rather than your Brotherhood. Even the soldiers of tomorrow have to pass their SATs, or do you aspire to create an army of idiots? They'd be in good company, at least.

CX 

Dear CX, 

I am not interested in recruiting child soldiers. The younger people of our species would be in good hands at your school, as I believe I insinuated in a previous publication. However, I do hope you see fit to put my “ridiculous” publication somewhere on your curriculum, if for no other reason than to remind your student body that mutant life isn't all mortarboards and rainbows. 

Although to say either of us had an aversion to rainbows would be kidding ourselves, Libeling. What I may lack in Ivory-Tower trained intellect, thankless head that I am to my Army of Idiots, I more than make up for in your satisfaction. 

Yours,  
Magneto


	7. Eulogy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The death of Angel Salvadore, as eulogized by Magneto.

**07/14/1964  
Zine Title: A Brotherhood of Mutants**

My Fellow Mutants, 

If I were free, there would be no words. Only vengeance. But words are powerful too...at least, this is what I must believe. So I will speak plain. 

I have received intelligence that as of last Thursday, our fledgling Brotherhood lost one of it's most courageous members. We are likely the only ones who mourn her passing. But our grief is a palpable force that will not be ignored. It is tenacious. It is insistent. It demands to be addressed. 

So did Angel Salvadore. 

Born to an impoverished share cropping family in south Texas, to a Colombian father and a black mother, Angel faced the worst this “Great Country Of Ours” had to offer from nearly the moment she opened her eyes. By the time her mutation manifested, by the time her eyes had adopted kaleidoscopic abilities, and her lace wings unfurled from her shoulder blades, beautiful tattoos that were not really tattoos, but the marks of her majesty....Angel had already been raped three times, given up on school, and suffered six broken bones at the hands of her biological “family.”

But Angel would not want me to speak about her as a victim. Indeed, it was her determination to take ownership over her life that led her to New York at just 14 years old. It was her desire for agency that made her turn what people had tried to steal into something they had to buy. It was Angel's desire to fly that led her to dance, first in strip clubs, then with the X-men, and finally, gloriously, with our Brotherhood of Mutants. 

When Angel spoke of these things, it would not occur to you to pity her. Everything in this young woman's bearing demanded respect. We live in a world where men, mutant and human alike, think they are entitled to womens' bodies. I watched once as Angel poked out the eye of a construction worker that had tracked her down the street for too long. When I asked her what brought that on, she looked me in the face and said “An eye for an eye. Until it stops.” 

Angel was a force of nature. During her time with us, she conducted aerial support on a number of missions, and her ability to find cover fast while dancing with the air around her, no matter how bullet-ridden, hurricane-fraught, or otherwise hostile it was, made her an invaluable member of our team. 

Angel always valued freedom. Her and I disagreed about the hypothetical fate of humans in the new world order. While she would not have protested the idea of human extinction, her passion lay in “freedom-to” initiatives. She was happiest when our kind was happy. When we rescued mutant children from an unregistered lab and then taught them how to defend themselves. When a poor black woman manifested the ability to walk through walls, and we could teach her how to steal from the mayor. When I heard through Bryce about the Civil Rights Act being signed into law, I didn't have to be there to know her reaction. She shot her pistol in the air, or chugged a 40, or flit around the safe house swearing joyful oaths in Spanish.

The circumstances of this extraordinary mutant's death are still coming to light. We do know that she was last seen alive at the crash site of Flight 823 in Parrotsville, Tennessee. There's grainy NBC footage of an unidentified airborne individual attempting to rescue people from the fire. Our intelligence team isolated a strange figure in the periphery of this footage who seemed to be intently tracking Ms. Salvadore. Although the footage was live, and most of the ground crew are disoriented, this figure is in a full-coverage utility suit, goggles, and a gas mask. 36 hours after the incident, Ms. Salvadore became radio silent and ceased responding to the usual Brotherhood codes. 

24 hours after this a package containing a clipping of her wing, a portion of her breast, and her eye were delivered to the New York PO Box with the following message:

“You can have these bits. We're not using them.  
Appreciatively Yours,  
The U-Men” 

I don't know who these U-Men are. Our best operatives have been putting out feelers for the past few days, and so far we have no inkling as to their loyalties or their agenda, except their vague connection with an as-yet at large “Dr. John Sublime”. Most likely they are another secret governmental subset, commissioned to find and extinguish our kind. However, my instinct tells me that the gas mask and full suit is a little obvious, even for the US government. I'm putting it out to all of you, Brothers and Sisters. Whoever they are, these U-men took our guardian Angel, and used her up until there was nothing left. 

Find them.

Destroy them.

An eye for an eye, until it stops. Until everything stops. 

Magneto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more information on the U-Men, refer to the wikipedia page. Terrifying stuff. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/U-Men_%28comics%29
> 
> Also sorry for the long hiatus. I've been in the mire of grad school applications. As usual, I'm taking essay subject requests!


End file.
